Confusion
by wegotmonobaby
Summary: Sam Vimes has a chat with the Patrician. His tights get mentioned. Slash, but only mentioned. One-shot. Disclaimer! Not mine, Terry Pratchett, don't sue, etc. COMPLETE.


I can't help but admire the idiot. Even when I'm trapped here, detained until further notice as he goes through the seemingly endless list of city business I'm supposed to find really really interesting. He is nothing to look at. Stick thin. Flamingo. Vampire. Undead. What people never say is, brilliant. Exceptional. Intense. Funny, even. Subtle though his humour is, I get it. Oh yeah, Sam Vimes, thick copper. But no, not really, not anymore. You have to be fatally stupid to be where I am today and not be halfway bright. High Society helps. Who knew wearing tights would lead to an improved mind? If only Vetinari and I were closer, we could joke about that. I wonder if he ever does that with anyone. If, when the trials of the day are done, he calls out, 'Drumknott! What say you and I get royally pissed, eh?' Obviously he doesn't, and the very thought makes me smirk widely, which is unfortunate, as it's response time.

'Sir?'  
'Did you hear that last part, Vimes? About the League of Temperance?'  
'Yessir.'  
'Really? Do you think it would be wise of me to ask you to repeat it?'  
'Sir?'  
'That part about your comment to Mr. Creek?'

Delicate shake of paper.  
Slight lean in, scrunch of nose.

"Why don't you bloody shut up, Otto? Put a sodding stake in it, will you?"'  
'Yessir. Mr. Creek wouldn't shut up, sir.'  
'I see. And you chose to go with not overly diplomatic with a touch of cliche?'  
'Sir.'  
'I do love these little talks, Sam. I really appreciate your input.'  
'Yessir.'

When he calls me Sam, my brain short-wires slightly. It doesn't happen often enough. It's normally when I've disappointed or amused him to some high level. I don't know the rules to these games, don't ever want to. I don't understand any of this myself. This ridiculous obsession. I have a wife, and a son, and for the most part, I am happy. What I don't have, is a challenge. And Havelock. Well. The man is a challenge in normal conversation. I can't begin to imagine what he'd be like were I trying to woo him. I nearly laugh at this, the thought too much in an atmosphere that requires me to be quiet, and Vetinari pauses, raises a perfect eyebrow.

'Something amusing, Sir Samuel?'  
'Nosir.'  
'Hmmm. Maybe you would like to start this portion of events again?'

An empty threat, as there are three Guild heads in the waiting room, and whilst Havelock is a sadist, he has around a two hour sadism limit.

'Nosir. Got it, Sir.'  
'Ok, well. Do make sure to wear your full uniform of office tonight, Commander.'  
'Yessir. Wait, what?'  
'The Annual Charity Ball for the League of Temperance. The reason I bought the Creek incident up?'  
'Yessir. Sorry Sir. Tights though?'

Here, Vetinari smiles. Fleeting, and maybe I imagined it. But I don't think I did.

'Tights Sam.'

Quietly.

'They're my favourite part.'

I stare at the bastard, and he doesn't look away, of course not. The room falls utterly silent, and I ache for Havelock to say, 'don't let me detain you,' and send me on my way. But he doesn't. He stands, and suddenly I'm afraid.

'Samuel. Do you ever fall asleep at your desk?' he asks this when he comes to a stop, about a pace away from me. I frown, utterly confused at the totally abrupt change of topic. We're facing each other, but I don't look him in the face as I answer.

'Erm. Off the record, your Lordship?' Vetinari nods, and I try and work out his angle. I have absolutely no idea where this could possibly lead, and I'm pretty much terrified. 'I. Yes. It has been known to happen on occassion, maybe. Once.'

'Hmmm, yes. More than once a day, I'm told. If you're working a particularly tough case. And that's...understandable, you do work rather long hours. The thing that bothers me, however, is what you do when you sleep.'

I think what this could mean. Pretty sure I don't sleepwalk. Haven't pissed myself since I quit the drink. Literally have no idea what I could... Unless..

I look up in shock at Havelock, who looks satisfied that we're both finally on the same page. The last time I fell asleep at work, I dreamt about him, about Vetinari. I remember waking up on a moan, and who was it that was bloody there? Nobby. I'm going to have him murdered.

'Sam, before you go off on a rampage, it wasn't Corporal Nobbs who told me the, ah. Intimate details. I was actually there myself, just before he arrived, I needed something signing. I'm afraid I couldn't quite bring myself to leave. Not after the first..'

I shut my eyes and pray he doesn't elaborate and-

'..moan of my name.'

I want to die.

'Now, Sir Samuel, don't let this whole situation get out of hand. We both know you love your wife. We both know I'm the Patrician of this City. Unnaceptable doesn't even come close. Don't sleep at work anymore, and no-one will ever know. Now,'

he walks back to his chair as if we've just been discussing the weather which we never ever do, and I absolutely cannot close my mouth.

'if there's nothing further,' he carries on, shuffling his paper, 'don't let me detain you.'

Here's my out. But, I'm nothing if not a sadist. Worse than him, maybe.

'Just so I know. If it wasn't for Sybil..?'

He looks up, at me, through me, and I shiver under his scrutiny.

'You wouldn't survive the night, Sam. I would destroy you.'


End file.
